DISLOCATION FRONT-ROW FACE-FRACTURE
Was out scouting for style stuff again Friday afternoon: Shoreditch. Judges Houses for matey off telly, Roman/Tuscan casual garb for ’self in unequal measure. More of this perhaps later, as particularly excited by newly found label William Fox & Sons from Present (click). Crossing Curtain Road to visit Mr.Start (click) for some dark fitted shirts fit for Dubai/Vegas, I spotted a style luminary of note. Michael Roberts is the British born Fashion Director of Vanity Fair in the US, a formidable, serious customer. Normally see him FROW across a runway or with the host of a vaunted fashion do looking either lofty/focused, or on intimate terms.
Director Roberts FROW right.
Friday on Curtain Michael was out of his armour, in parka, matching pants and work boots. I was doing super-casual having decanted from L.F. Lido an hour before: Moncler Gamme Bleu marl jogger bottoms, Nike Air Zoom Marathon runners-double battered- and fitted navy Intimissimi tee shirt. We clapped eyes on each other and exchanged a look- we were both out of the surroundings we recognise each other from, and we were both out of normal combat gear as it were. I stared at the tall, teak, elegant, stoic fellow in khaki for a bit as I walked, and he stared at me with my shopping bags and dirty trainers. Then we both started smiling. Michael’s face broke into the broadest, warmest beam of a smile. I did what I could back with my dubious coffee/cigar tint railings- but the moment was a light, amusing, human one. We both got it. In a different environment, a sighting was somehow remarkable to us. Funny that- not hysterical granted, but odd. Context is everything- and for Michael and I this was a new vista. Wouldn’t dream of acting like that at the shows, oh know. Think I might welll go up to him next time though, shout “Watcha Michael?” when we’re next at Prada and see what happens next. And do try to remember kids, in style- context can be everything.
Stubbs out in The (usual) Metropolis.
August 1st, 2012 at 11:55 am
Funny you should mention that. Just behind Robbo, you can see Vogue’s in-house fop Hamish Bowles. I had a similar encounter with him at the Stoke/Cardiff run-off at the Britannia last season.
There I was, bouncing on me toes (semi-ironic green and blue Trimm Tabs as I recall), arms wide in the universal gesture of ‘come and get slashed Taffy’, when who should charge out of their front line, but Bowles, wearing Ellesse and Diadora, his fist clasped around a copy of the Economist rolled up into a Chelsea brick.
Our eyes met and he smiled (teeth still flecked with blood from an earlier ambush by the Under Fives down by the train station), and there was a perfect moment of recognition, as if he was saying ‘yes, I may dress in purple velvet during the week, but come Saturday, I like nothing better than a spot of Darwinian ultraviolence in provincial shopping centres.’
Then he went down under a hail of bottles and got kicked under a car.